


at the edge of your affection

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Cuckolding, Georgi-centric, M/M, Masturbation, PopoPOV, author is a cunt, but in all honesty canon started it, fic of a fic, it's another one of those weird things I tend to write-
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: He knows it's bound to happen; the only question is, will he let it happen on his watch.





	at the edge of your affection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tonberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberry/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tread Softly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053080) by [tonberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberry/pseuds/tonberry). 



> Fic of this^^ so you may want to read it first. Also, pre-emptively, I'm sorry-

Georgi’s straight: a lonely island of normality in a sport of flamboyant, overly-dramatic weirdos. 

Consider: Giacometti, who would pole-dance on the ice if he could. Victor, who painted his nails pink in juniors—on multiple occasions. The new Korean kid who plasters himself to middle-aged dudes and starts kissing them when drunk. Nekola, who ogles Michele Crispino’s ass while hitting on his sister (and no, Georgi _doesn’t_ want to know how that ended up). Compared to all of them, Georgi is a paragon of heterosexual virtue. 

Or at least that’s what he tells himself until _this_ happens.

It all starts when Victor and Yuri start exchanging _looks._ This sits at least fifteen kinds of wrong with Georgi—but then he remembers the sort of shit he and Victor used to get up to when they sneaked out to hit the clubs circa 2004, and okay, fine, it could definitely be worse: if fifteen-year-old Victor had hooked up with someone like his twenty-six-year-old self, fifteen-year-old Georgi would have been quite relieved. 

So, on the whole, he pretends he doesn’t notice—until the two lovebirds start doing it on the plane, where everyone can snap a picture for the tabloids.For a moment there, it had even looked like Victor was going to join a fucking fifteen-year-old in a plane restroom—and what if someone had recorded them going out of the same stall, one after the other? 

And then at the sponsor dinner: it goes as boring sponsor dinners go, except that Victor and Yuri play footsie under the table and think no one notices. Which, okay, Yuri is fifteen and an idiot, but Victor? Victor _knows_ money and reputations ride on this—hell, he can go to jail if he isn’t careful. Georgi was right to volunteer to share a room and chaperone: thank god _someone_ here can still think with his upper head, because clearly neither Yuri nor Victor do. 

Georgi thinks the danger is past when Yuri agreeably goes to bed at eleven, though in hindsight, he should have really known better. At butt-o’clock past midnight, the hotel room door wakes him up. Georgi blinks while he tries to parse the shuffling footsteps, then hears Victor’s low rumble—and, fuck, there’s only so much you can do for two idiots when they’re this hell-bent on their idiocy. 

Georgi turns towards the wall, instinctively falling back on his and Victor’s bro-code from when they shared a room in juniors. He’d known it was going to happen; if Victor were deterred by a statutory rape scandal, he wouldn’t have rubbed his dick against Yuri’s foot all the way through sponsor dinner. 

The only question is whether Georgi would let it happen on his watch. 

Doing it in the room while Georgi’s sleeping isn’t dumb at all, Georgi thinks: this way they’ve got plausible deniability. (And thank fucking God Yuri’s not a girl. Yakov would go on a murder spree if his junior champion were to end up pregnant.) 

“Lead on,” Victor tells Yuri, voice low in his throat and the two of them shuffle over and fall on the bed. Wet, slick kissing sounds echo in the midnight silence of the room, broken every now and then by the tiny moans Yuri makes in his enthusiastic inexperience. Georgi gets second-hand embarrassment just listening to them. 

It’s cosmic justice, he tells himself—for all the times he’s brought girls over to his and Victor’s shared room. 

He remembers: how proud he’d been of bedding Katya in tenth grade, with her impressive, heavy tits and her legs spread open underneath him, her hand pulling him down by the back of his neck-

-but then, behind his back Yuri gasps and says, “Suck me,” and Georgi wants to groan as his own dick swells. He imagines what it’s like, having someone like Victor weigh on top of you and overwhelm you; smirk and close his lips around your dick, blue eyes glinting as he looks up. He remembers Katya again, and Lena and Asya, and how it always felt just a little _more_ and _better_ to sink into them when Victor was in the other bed. How exciting it had been to show Victor how he made them gasp; to wonder if Victor could smell Georgi’s come as it mixed with the smell of their cunts. 

Did Victor feel the same, now? Did he like it, deep down, that Georgi could hear what he was doing to his boy?

“Victor,” Yuri gasps, and Georgi’s hand sneaks into his boxers, ever-so-quietly squeezing and rubbing as Yuri tries and fails to muffle the sound he makes when he comes. A full-body shudder goes though Georgi—he gives himself a longer, harder squeeze—and then _Victor_ groans, and Georgi’s breath hitches. It’s a man’s groan, low and rough; Georgi’s dick pushes up into his hand when he thinks of how proud Yuri must be; how good he must feel, to be able to please a grown man like that-

-how good Georgi would feel, if he were allowed to please Victor- 

-how it would feel if Victor saw him as someone significant and an equal—maybe not an equal in age, but like the junior champion, a peer in skill, walking the same life-path-

-what it would be like, to be good enough for Victor’s bed and attention-

“Get the fuck off me,” Yuri tells Victor, sounding nonchalant and tough, and Georgi knows: he is Victor’s age, yet he could never speak to him like that. He’s a has-been; it would never be his time. He’d always thought; here’s Victor, and I’ll be next, and little Yuri after me—but no: there’s only Victor and Yuri—a champion handing the crown to his successor and holding him while his breath settles. 

Georgi would always be less than, outside, and other. And no amount of having fucked his girlfriends where Victor could hear—no amount of him listening to Yuri and Victor’s sheets rustle and their breaths mix—would ever make him belong. His place will only ever be _here_ , he thinks as his fist slides over his cock: worshipping quietly at the foot of their altar, awash in his own insignificance.

He squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t wipe the tears when they roll; listens to them make hushed plans to move it upstairs and squeezes at the base of his cock, biting his lip so he can stay still and quiet. 

The door shuts closed behind Victor—it is _now_ that Georgi needs to be the quietest, when they’re no longer consumed with each other—then shuts again, behind Yuri. Georgi makes a ragged sigh; groans and rubs. He thinks of Victor, having claimed the best and the brightest for his own; and of Yuri, daringly sneaking up to the thirteenth floor, where Victor will be wet from his shower, with a towel on his hips and his arms spread out, beckoning Yuri close. 

Georgi thinks of what it must be like to be on all fours on Victor’s bed, like the most delicious prize—like Georgi’s girlfriends always seemed to him with their ample asses in the air, wet and ready for his dick- 

-what it would be like to give this kind of pleasure to someone who wants to grab him by the hips, and fuck and fuck and fuck-

And comes miserably in his fist. 

**Author's Note:**

> writing advice/suggestions for improvement welcome. asshattery not welcome ;)


End file.
